


Light in the darkness

by fromthedeskoftheraven



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Battle of Five Armies Fix-It, Depression, F/M, Hopeful Ending, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Thorin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-27
Updated: 2016-02-27
Packaged: 2018-05-23 14:13:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6118960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fromthedeskoftheraven/pseuds/fromthedeskoftheraven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin helps his wife deal with depression.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Light in the darkness

Pleaseunderstand that by taking this short story in a hopeful direction, I’m not intending to trivialize or oversimplify depression. What I’ve written is my wish for this character, and for anyone who is struggling as she is.

—————————

There was much cause for celebration. Erebor was reclaimed, your enemies defeated, peace and prosperity brought back to the Lonely Mountain and to the dwarves who flocked to their long-lost homeland. Your husband was the newly crowned King under the Mountain, restored to his rightful place on the throne, and you were, by all appearances, his gracious and happy consort. Outwardly, all was well in your world, and yet the raw winter that held Erebor in its grip had seemed to settle into your very soul…a gloomy, crushing chill that chased away even the memory of sunshine and laughter.

Your initial attempts to hide your malaise had been largely successful, and though the prospect of leaving your bed in the morning often made your heart feel tight and leaden in your chest, you’d faithfully attended feasts, meetings, and ceremonies at Thorin’s side, wearing a smile as a mask while you stood in crowded rooms and felt more alone than ever before. 

Little by little, though, you had begun to unravel, your smiles becoming more stiff, your forced cheerfulness faltering, your head aching with the effort of maintaining a veneer of gaiety. Your senses seemed dulled by a dim cloud of hopelessness in which you walked, though you saw Thorin’s growing concern for you clearly enough, adding to your inward guilt. 

Your dread of your official duties steadily grew, until the evening when Thorin entered the bedroom you shared to find you seated in an armchair by the fireplace, still in your nightgown and robe, a formal gown lying neat and untouched on the bed and your lady’s-maid dismissed for the day.

“Amrâlimê, the dinner is about to begin,” he said uncertainly. “Aren’t you coming?”

“I’m afraid I don’t feel equal to it tonight,” you answered in barely more than a whisper, your insides twisting with the shame of disappointing him, of snubbing your guests from Dale. “I am sorry to let you down, Thorin.”

“Not at all, my love,” he said, coming close to lay a comforting hand on your cheek. “You rest. I’ll give them your regrets.” He gave you a searching look before patting your shoulder encouragingly and going to the door.

It was late when Thorin returned, and you remained in the chair where he had left you, contemplating a cold grate in the faint light of the single candle on the table beside you. Worry clouded his handsome features as he came wordlessly to build a fire, which soon filled the room with its warmth and light. He wore an anxious furrow on his brow when he finally turned to you, his voice tentative.

“Are you ill, amrâlimê?”

“I’m fine,” you quickly insisted, but a traitorous tear spilled to your cheek and rolled, unchecked, to the velvet of your robe. Thorin lowered himself to his knees before you, gently taking your hands in his.

“Amrâlimê, please tell me what ails you,” he said softly. “I know you are troubled. Let me help you.”

“I do not know that you can,” you answered dully, another tear sliding down your face.

“Then let me try.”

You looked into his pleading eyes, hesitating. “It is only foolishness,” you said, with a shake of your head. “I have every reason to be happy.”

“Yet you are not,” he prodded.

A flood of hot, stinging tears welled up, and with a shaky sigh, you let the words come forth. “I feel as though I have forgotten how to be happy. The day of the battle, I was so afraid, and there was so much suffering…the Great Hall was filled with them, broken and bleeding and dead…and their faces, their shattered bodies will not leave me, even when I sleep,” you said helplessly. “The women weeping for their husbands and sons…their grief echoes in my ears, reproaching me for having my own husband safe in my arms. There was so much suffering, and it clings to me, even now,” you finished, clapping a hand over your mouth to contain a sob.

His face was pained, and he was quiet for a moment as your weeping ebbed. “My love, I am so sorry,” he said, his voice full of regret, moving to carefully clasp your shoulders with his strong hands, “I am so sorry. You have carried this burden, and I did not know.”

“I did not wish to trouble you,” you replied, drying your eyes with the sleeve of your robe. “You have so many responsibilities…as do I.”

“You need not give a thought to your responsibilities,” he assured you, but you shook your head.

“You need my support, and the people have expectations of their Queen.”

“Your welfare is more important,” Thorin said firmly. “A downcast heart requires care, and time to mend, just as an afflicted body does. I will speak to Balin. We will arrange to excuse you from all official duties until you feel ready to face them again.”

Tears – this time of gratitude and relief – filled your eyes once again, and you whispered, “thank you,” as he drew you into his arms where he knelt. 

“Oh, amrâlimê,” he murmured, “I will do anything in my power to see you glad again. Anything.” His own eyes glistened as he leaned back to look into your face, wiping away a fallen tear with his thumb. “Will you come to bed with me? Let me hold you?”

You nodded, feeling drained after the turbulent emotion of your confession, and he led you to the bed, helping you off with your robe and settling you securely in his arms, your head tucked under his chin. He held you close through the night, comforting you with his warm, solid presence, tenderly stroking your hair when your silent tears dampened the shoulder of his tunic.

The morning dawned bleak and gray, and when you woke, Thorin had already made a fire and brought a tray from the kitchen with hot tea and your favorite blackberry tart to tempt you. He sat on the edge of the bed, quietly watching you sip your tea.

“Will you be all right while I go to the council?” he asked. “I can call someone to keep you company, if you like.”

“Oh, no, I will be better off alone,” you answered quickly, picking at the buttery crust of the tart.

He stood, bending to place a kiss on the crown of your head. “I will come home as soon as I am able,” he promised.

When the door closed behind him, you pushed the tray aside and lay back on your pillow, staring aimlessly at the bed’s canopy, but the relief of being freed from your daily schedule eventually turned to lonely restlessness. You dragged on your robe and wandered once again to the comfortable chair by the fire, feeling a stab of revulsion as your unkempt reflection confronted you from the mirror beside your vanity table, and remained there as the morning passed, moving only to retrieve the remains of your barely-touched breakfast when hunger gnawed at you, refusing to be ignored.

Thorin returned in the afternoon, wearing a kind smile and carrying a small parcel, which he offered to you.

“What is it?” you asked, and he merely nodded toward it, encouraging you to take it from his hand.

As you unwrapped the brown paper, a honeyed, floral scent floated to your nostrils, and you discovered a thick bar of soap, its creamy white surface carved with a delicate flower motif. “It’s lovely,” you said, holding the soap close to your nose to breathe its sweet scent.

“It is scented with the lissuin flower, very rare and beautiful,” Thorin said. “Bard spoke highly of the merchant who makes it, so I sent for some for you.”

“Thank you, Thorin,” you said, touched by his effort to cheer you, and he gently ruffled your hair before taking a seat in the chair opposite, adding a log to the fire as he joined you in companionable silence.

The next morning also demanded Thorin’s presence in meetings, and as you began to pull on your robe, prepared to spend another day alone with your thoughts, the bar of soap caught your eye where it rested on your bedside table. You idly picked it up, sniffing it again, and a sudden impulse led you to ring for your maid. Before you could change your mind, the large, marble bathtub had been filled with hot water, and you eased yourself into it, clutching your new treasure as its heady scent filled the bathroom, finding unexpected comfort in the warmth of the water and the fluffy lather on your skin.

When he had finished his duties for the day, Thorin arrived home with a seed cake from the kitchen and a small stack of books, new arrivals in the library that he hoped you might enjoy, quietly placed on the fireside table for whenever they might pique your interest. 

Indeed, you found that each dark day that passed brought a small, sweet, thoughtful gesture from your husband. He played songs for you on his harp one evening, soothingly brushed and braided your hair the next, read aloud to you as you lay in bed, your head resting on his chest and his sonorous voice lulling you to sleep. He gifted you with colorful embroidery thread, parchment and inks for writing, pretty ribbons to lace your gowns, all the trivial fancies that usually pleased you. Thorin seemed resolved, every day, to offer you a moment of happiness, no matter how small, and gradually you began to be equally resolved to seize them when they came.

Two weeks after your retreat from the business of daily life in Erebor, Thorin came home later than usual, and swathed in his heavy, fur-lined coat, its collar flecked thickly with snow. You lay aside the book you’d been leafing through as he came to stand close to the fire, holding his hands to the flames to warm them.

“Where have you been?” you asked, watching the melting snow from his coat drip, with tiny, sizzling puffs of steam, onto the burning logs.

“I had a special errand,” he answered mysteriously, with a small smile. He rubbed his hands together and reached into the large pocket in the lining of his coat, carefully drawing out a tiny, furry bundle and gently placing it in your lap. A sleepy, round-bellied, little black dog with a snub nose and small, floppy ears mewled and curled up on the fabric of your skirt, and you gasped, your hand instinctively moving to stroke its smooth fur.

“Oh, Thorin, where did you get it?”

“Kili found them, close to the river…four pups, and the mother, perished. They were half frozen when we collected them, but we dried them in our coats, and they have had some warm milk in the kitchen. Kili and Fili are looking after the others, and I brought this little fellow home for you.”

The puppy arched into the warmth of your hand with a whimpering squeak. You felt a surge of affection for the little creature, and somehow the festering wound in your soul seemed to yield up some of its poison to this new compassion, and you gently picked it up, cuddling it to your shoulder as your tears fell on its silky head.

“Thank you, my love,” you said fervently, reaching with one hand to hold tightly to Thorin’s. “You are too good to me.” 

“Nothing is too good for you, my ghivâshel,” he said, his voice tender.

The puppy raised its head, nuzzling your chin, and began to enthusiastically lick the wet, salty tracks on your cheeks, drawing a laugh from you, jarring and unfamiliar to your ears.

Thorin beamed, still holding your hand as he bent to settle himself on the rug at your feet, close to the fire. He watched you with bright eyes as you held and kissed the squirming little dog, and when you looked at him again, his smile was gentle, hopeful.

“It is good to see you smile, amrâlimê.”

“I will be myself again,” you murmured, stroking the back of his hand with your thumb, “in time.”

“As much as you need,” he assured you. “I am by your side in all things, bitter or sweet.”

“You are a light in the darkness to me,” you said earnestly, and he pressed your hand to his lips and then to his cheek.

You remained there at the quiet fireside, with Thorin leaning against your knee and the dozing puppy nestled in your lap, anchoring yourself in this moment of contentment, letting it wash over you, focusing your senses on the simple pleasures of the coarse softness of Thorin’s hair beneath your fingers, the warm weight of the little dog on your legs, the flickering glow of the fire. A tiny spark was kindled in your heart that you recognized as hope, the belief that you would truly be yourself again…that these fleeting moments of happiness could be coaxed and cultivated, could slowly grow strong and irresistible, and that you would at last emerge from this desolate winter into the warm light of a promising spring.


End file.
